


How Much the Heart Can Hold

by ExultedShores



Series: A Heart That Isn't Here [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Asexual Character, Asexual Daud (Dishonored), Asexual Relationship, Demiromantic Daud (Dishonored), Established Relationship, Found Family, M/M, Minor Character Death, Royal Protector Daud (Dishonored), Royal Spymaster Thomas (Dishonored)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-10-04 01:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: When Emily Kaldwin takes her rightful place as the Empress of the Isles, Daud and Thomas stand at her side - and life goes on, the way it does. A look at Thomas Carmine's tenure as Royal Spymaster throughout the years.(Or, five times Thomas' powers increased, and the one time he lost them).





	1. Agility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to the sequel to _What the Dead Know by Heart_! The _first_ sequel, that is. Catch me expanding this 'verse into a novel-length story because I can, whoops.

Three weeks into the reign of Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin I, Royal Spymaster Thomas Oleander Carmine is ready to throw himself off the side of Kaldwin’s Bridge.

The whole government is in shambles after the arrest of Emily’s latest Lord Regent resulted in the ten-year-old monarch abolishing regency altogether and demanding to be governed by a council instead. Parliament deliberated for days about the proper course of action, but with both appointed Lord Regents currently behind bars for crimes against the Crown, they had no choice but to accept their Empress’ suggestion.

The council is to exist of the Prime Minister, the Royal Physician, the Royal Spymaster, the Royal Protector, and the Commander of the City Watch. Emily wasted no time appointing people to the necessary posts, with Lord Treavor Pendleton becoming head of Parliament, Geoff Curnow receiving the well-earned promotion to Commander, and Anton Sokolov and Piero Joplin elected as two halves of one properly functioning physician.

Thomas himself was officially inducted as Her Majesty’s Royal Spymaster some days later, when his heritage as heir to the Carmine family had been established and the evidence he’d produced regarding Farley Havelock’s treachery was deemed authentic. There were no objections, despite his long absence from the limelight. Perhaps Parliament believes his disappearance is testament to his ability to remain in the shadows. Or perhaps they’re just relieved to have a noble take up the position, after low-born Hiram Burrows literally brought the plague to Gristol’s shores.

No Royal Protector has been chosen yet.

That was a conscious decision on Daud’s part, and not an unwise one. Dunwall is still reeling from the plague and the loss of three rulers in just a year’s time, and Emily will need to establish her worth as a leader before she can invite the Knife of Dunwall to join her court without all hell breaking loose.

Until that time, the protection of the Empress is officially the responsibility of the City Watch, and not-so-officially that of the Spymaster’s Office, at Daud’s urging. Thomas hardly ever leaves Emily’s side, and there are Whalers lurking in the shadows whenever the Empress has to leave the Tower. It’s a hefty burden to bear on its own, but combined with the other duties that fall to the Royal Spymaster, Thomas has all but forgotten what the word ‘sleep’ even means.

Not that sleep comes easy to him even when he does have time to rest, not since slicing open Corvo Attano’s neck that fateful day on the gazebo of Dunwall Tower. Thomas dreams of that wretched moment nearly every time he slumbers, of the fact that he’s taken an honourable man’s life when there was no missive calling for it, of what might have happened if he _hadn’t_ done so, Attano’s sword piercing Daud’s back and taking away everything Thomas ever was, is, and will be in the process. By now, he’s seen more death in his dreams than he ever has awake, and he’s been a professional assassin for almost a decade.

Thomas can count the nights he’s properly slept through on one hand, because those were the nights he did not sleep alone, Daud’s presence a constant, comforting sensation that soothed him into a dreamless sleep without fail. Those few nights were his only respite, first at the Hound Pits Pub, sequestered from the other Whalers, and then that one night at Pendleton Manor, resting his head atop Daud’s chest to hear the steady heartbeat of a man who escaped execution, the heartbeat of the man he loves beyond all else, the heartbeat of the man who’d kissed him and called him his partner and promised him they would have _time_.

Except there is no time for Thomas to do anything but work, and he has barely even caught a glimpse of Daud among the Whalers, now under Thomas’ command. He knows this is how it has to be for now, knows Daud cannot set foot in Dunwall Tower before his official appointment as Royal Protector, but Void, Thomas feels his absence like a physical ache. If only Emily’s rule wasn’t so precarious; if only something would happen to strengthen its foundation.

That something happens on the First Day of the Month of Clans, when Anton Sokolov and Piero Joplin burst into the parliamentary meeting an hour late.

“We have it!” Sokolov exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. “The cure, we found the cure!”

And just like that, Emily Kaldwin transforms from the child Empress to the monarch under whose rule a cure to the rat plague of Pandyssia was discovered. Almost overnight, her reign is unshakably cemented into history.

She announces her choice for Royal Protector the very next day.

The shock that echoes through Parliament the moment Daud steps through the door is more amusing than anything, every face contorted in some degree of shock or outrage. Thomas has to fight to keep a straight face himself, not in the least because Daud’s new Protector’s coat looks incredible on him, the navy blue fabric bringing out a different vibe of danger. He is still deadly, and he exudes it, but he is not an aggressor anymore. He is a Protector.

“Your Majesty,” one of the Lords – Alderdice, if Thomas remembers correctly – chokes out, his face ashen at the sight of Daud, “what in the name of the Everyman…?”

He cannot finish his sentence, and it’s no surprise. Alderdice has hired Daud and the Whalers on numerous occasions, and the Spymaster’s Office has the records to prove it. For that matter, quite a few members of Parliament have requested their services one time or another. It’s no wonder the room has gone as silent as the grave they ordered dug.

“This is Daud,” Emily says again, as if the first time she introduced him to her court wasn’t already unnecessary. “We appoint him Our Royal Protector.”

“But… but Your Majesty!” Alderdice tries again, looking close to passing out altogether. “Your mother –”

“Our mother is dead, Lord Alderdice,” Emily says so sharply it’s easy to forget she’s only ten years old. “Former Spymaster Burrows made sure of that. We, however, would care to remain alive. It is to that end We have entered Lord Protector Daud into Our service.”

She’s never pointed to Daud and Thomas as her parents’ killers. Officially, the one who murdered Jessamine Kaldwin and Corvo Attano is still at large, even if all of Gristol has long suspected the Knife of Dunwall.

“I have sworn fealty to Emily Kaldwin,” Daud says briskly, staring Alderdice down with chilling ease. “And when I accept a job, I do it well. You ought to know, Lord Alderdice.”

Alderdice sinks back into his seat. There are no more objections.

* * *

In theory, Daud’s official appointment as Royal Protector lifts some of Thomas’ workload. In practise, he’s busier than he was before.

With the discovery of the cure for the plague, it’s become paramount to produce enough for every citizen infected with the disease, and the numbers are staggering. Sokolov and Piero have their team of physicians working around the clock, but they can still barely keep up with the demand. Thomas and his men, in the meantime, are working overtime trying to collect the ingredients the natural philosophers require, while at the same time assisting the City Watch with rounding up plague victims, making sure no one slips through the cracks.

It’s gratifying work, if not exhausting, and it’s not until the commotion begins to die down almost a month later that Thomas finally gets some proper rest.

He’s just leaving the Royal Physicians’ labs when there’s a tug at the Arcane Bond; Daud’s way of requesting his presence rather than demanding it. He has the ability to summon the Whalers to him without any say-so from the one he’s summoning, just pulling them through the Void at his leisure, but Daud prefers to catch his Whalers’ attention in this less invasive way. Only in battle does he actively summon his men.

Daud has done this a few times the past two weeks or so, but Thomas hasn’t been at liberty to respond, despite very much wanting to. Now, however, there’s no one else requiring his presence, and most of his paperwork has already been squared away.

Thomas lets the Arcane Bond guide him, transversing blindly to Daud’s location.

Unsurprisingly, he ends up in the Royal Protector’s quarters. Daud sits at his desk, a pince-nez resting on his nose as he reads through the last of the parliamentary reports of the day. He signs it with an aggression that speaks of a long day of paperwork, and only then does he remove the glasses and acknowledge Thomas.

“You look terrible,” is the first thing he says after months of separation.

Thomas would be offended, if it weren’t true. He’s hardly had time to eat and sleep and bathe, let alone shave or cut his hair. It’s almost reaching his chin at this point, the blond strands curling at the tips. “I take it you don’t think I should grow my hair out,” he responds wryly.

Daud smiles, tired but earnest. “Come here,” he implores as he stands, and Thomas does, allowing himself to be drawn into the embrace he’s been denied for far too long.

“You should grow your hair out,” Daud hums, winding a lock of it around his finger as he says so. “It’s a good look for you.”

Thomas smiles against his collarbone. “Alright.”

Daud pulls back just far enough to kiss him, and Void, Thomas still cannot quite believe he gets to experience this, gets to be held like this, gets to kiss the man he’s been in love with since the day Daud took him away from his ancestral home and gave him a true family, gets to see that love and admiration mirrored in Daud’s grey eyes, knowing that look is meant for _him_.

“When was the last time you slept?” Daud asks, no doubt noticing the bruising underneath Thomas’ eyes that stands out spectacularly on his fair skin.

“Pendleton Manor,” Thomas admits.

Daud snorts. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” he mutters, rubbing his nose where his pince-nez has left an indent. “If I’d known we’d be drowning in this much work, I’d have thought twice about accepting this Voiddamned job.”

“And you’d have reached the same conclusion,” Thomas says with absolute certainty, because Daud has never been able to deny a child in need of his assistance. “Who else could glower away the nobles who come to ask the Empress about something trivial?”

That gets a chuckle out of Daud. “She’s quite capable of that herself. It’s the gangs and the riots I’m more concerned about.”

“It won’t be long now. The council has been established. The plague is almost gone. Things will settle down soon enough,” Thomas says, the words of encouragement meant as much for himself as for Daud.

“And since when are you such an optimist?” Daud inquires, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Since I get to do this,” Thomas grins, and presses their lips together again.

Daud’s grin matches his. “Hmm, I can see how that would lift your spirits, yes,” he lilts, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down Thomas’ spine. “Will you stay the night?”

The ‘yes’ is already on the tip of his tongue when he falters, thinking of the last of the paperwork still awaiting him in his office and the early-morning meeting he has scheduled with Curnow and Rulfio. He’ll have to leave before dawn.

Daud notices his hesitation, and there’s a brief flash of disappointment in his eyes before they harden. “Do what you have to,” he says in a clear dismissal, turning back to his desk to sort out his reports. “There’ll be time later.”

Void, but Thomas is so sick of the word ‘later’. “I have an early meeting.”

“Then go.”

Back when Billie was still Daud’s second and Thomas was nothing but a loyal subordinate, Daud’s harsh tone would have had him tripping over his own feet in his hurry to obey the order. But Thomas is not Daud’s subordinate anymore, both their new titles and their new relationship marking them as equals, and he’s learned how to read Daud in the months he spent as the Whalers’ second in command. The bitterness in his voice is not anger. It’s disappointment, and petulance.

Thomas lays a hand on Daud’s shoulder, gently easing him back against his chest. “I have an early meeting,” he says again, “so we should go to bed _now_.”

That’s all Daud needs to hear. He drops the file back on his desk, takes Thomas’ hand, and leads him from the Royal Protector’s office to the adjacent personal quarters.

Daud’s new rooms are still sparsely furnished, the constant turmoil that’s held Dunwall in its grip since his appointment having kept him from decorating. But what is there is familiar, as though he’s somehow managed to replicate the Commerce Building in this new setting. There’s an impressive display of weaponry spanning one of the walls, blades and bolts and mines lined up to intimidate anyone who dares set foot in the Royal Protector’s quarters. All of Daud’s old books, and a handful of new ones, are placed painstakingly on shelves, and Thomas knows without looking at them that they’ve been ordered alphabetically, as Daud always does. A work of art has been framed and hung above the fireplace, and Thomas is amused to learn it’s not an expensive painting, but the drawing Emily made for them, depicting Daud and Thomas standing victorious over an Overseer.

Thomas looks over the new books Daud has acquired, their spines still shiny and uncracked. “Are you learning Tyvian?” he asks, trailing a finger over the symbols spelling out an unreadable title, unmistakably written in the Tyvian language.

“Yes,” Daud answers from across the room, where he’s shrugging out of his heavy Protector’s coat. “I know Serkonan and basic Pandyssian, but not Tyvian. I want to know what the dignitaries are gossiping about. And whatever Sokolov is muttering behind my back.”

Of course he would want to learn every language spoken in the Isles. It’s a stroke of luck that Morley speaks the same tongue as Gristol, even if they insist on calling it Morleyan rather than Gristolian. “You know Pandyssian?”

“My mother taught me,” Daud divulges, and when Thomas looks at him over his shoulder, he’s very interested in unlacing his boots. Thomas knows nothing of Daud’s mother, other than the fact that she wasn’t a very good cook.

“Where did your mother learn Pandyssian?” Thomas dares to ask, though he turns back to the bookshelves to give Daud some semblance of control over the situation.

It’s a while before Daud answers. “She grew up on an island just off the coast. They spoke a dialect there.”

Thomas doesn’t know what compels him to ask another question, other than the desire to know everything there is to know about this man he’s fallen so stupidly in love with. “Why did she choose to come to Serkonos?”

“She didn’t _choose_ anything,” Daud spits immediately, his voice filled with so much fury Thomas can’t help but flinch. “They _made_ her.”

This would be an excellent time to stop talking. But the next question leaves his lips without his permission. “They?”

“Pirates,” Daud growls. “They took her.”

“Why?” Void, he really should stop.

“The man who… _sired_ me,” Daud grinds out, the word ‘father’ nowhere near appropriate, “did not know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Oh. Oh, Void, that is – Outsider’s eyes, he was not expecting that. “The man who sired me hired an assassin to kill me,” Thomas offers, rather lamely, in an effort to break the tension. “Though I guess I can’t be too upset about that.”

Strangely, miraculously, it works. The stormy look on Daud’s face lifts, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Come to bed, cariño,” he implores, and Thomas does, laying his high-collared Spymaster’s coat next to Daud’s own before toeing off his boots and getting into bed.

It’s a large bed, not unlike the one at Pendleton Manor, not unlike the one in Thomas’ own quarters. He hates it. Hates the soft mattress, the silken sheets, the ornate canopy. It reminds him far too much of the bed of his childhood bedroom, where the maids had to wash the blood out of the sheets at least three times a week, because inevitably his tossing and turning re-opened one of the wounds inflicted on him.

But then he’s never shared that bed with anyone, let alone the Royal Protector and formerly the most wanted assassin in the Isles, and that makes all the difference. Daud has always made all the difference in his life.

Thomas lays his head on Daud’s chest, the sound of his steady heartbeat a comforting lullaby that has him drowsy within a minute. But a thought breaks through the fog of impending sleep, and he cannot help asking: “What does it mean?”

“Hmm?” Daud mumbles, nearly gone himself.

“Cariño,” Thomas says, failing to replicate Daud’s accent on the vowels. “You called me cariño.”

“Darling,” Daud rumbles sleepily, and Thomas can feel the word vibrating through his chest. “That’s what it means.”

He falls asleep then, likely not even aware of what he’s just divulged, but Thomas lies awake for a long time, his heart soaring, pounding in his chest. Darling. _Cariño_. Void, he feels like he might spontaneously combust. Or take flight. Or both, simultaneously.

When he does finally sleep, he dreams he has wings.

He flies far too close to the sun.

* * *

Three days later, Thomas is out in the field with a small team of spies, preparing to break into a condemned building just off Clavering Boulevard where some citizens infected with the plague are reportedly living, hiding from the City Watch herding those with their affliction. Thomas has it on good authority that they’re members of the Hatters, and of course they would not want to attract the attention of law enforcement, even when their lives are at stake. But the State cannot allow anyone infected with the disease to roam free, the risk of re-contamination far too high.

The mission today is simple. Scout the building, break in, confirm the presence of plague victims, or lack thereof, and if possible, subdue them. It’s nothing the Whalers haven’t done before. Thomas is only dealing with this himself because he’s short on manpower.

There is a ledge that will grant them easy access to the window on the first floor. It’s up too high to easily reach from the ground, but not high enough to warrant a transversal. In broad daylight, in service of the Crown, Thomas prefers to keep the use of his supernatural abilities to a minimum in any case. And this close to Holger Square, he’s definitely not risking it.

Instead, he grants himself a running start and jumps, intending to catch the ledge and pull himself up, like he’s done hundreds of times before.

That’s not what happens.

His jump is high, impossibly high, too high, and he soars _above_ the ledge, barely catching himself on all fours when he lands, ungracefully. For several long, tense seconds, Thomas holds his breath, listening for movement at the window, but all is quiet. Thank Void.

“What in the Void was that?” Rulfio hisses at him from below, where he and three other Whalers are staring at him with wide eyes. “I didn’t know you could do that!”

Thomas scratches the back of his neck. “Neither did I.”

When everything is said and done, he makes a point of stopping by Daud’s office to ask him about it.

“Increased agility?” Daud inquires, an eyebrow raised. “Huh. I didn’t think I could share that through the Bond.”

“So it’s a power?”

“Something of the sort. More of a passive ability, really,” Daud explains, his brows furrowing in thought. “I’ve had it since I got the Mark, but no one else has ever taken to it. Not even Billie.”

And Thomas understands.

He is not close to the sun because he can fly. He can fly because he is close to the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say [Royal Spymaster Thomas](https://dzala-va.tumblr.com/post/612448820666712064/my-first-commission-art-with-royal-spymaster)? :D


	2. Void Gaze

A year into the reign of Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin I, Royal Spymaster Thomas Oleander Carmine is settling into his position comfortably.

The plague has come and gone. Dunwall is still recovering from the aftermath, but the chaos has settled. The blockades have lifted. Parliament is quiet. The council is efficient. The citizens, though considerably shaken up by the plague, have returned to their day-to-day lives.

It doesn’t mean there’s not plenty for Thomas and his men to do. There are nobles to spy on and conspiracies to root out and events to oversee, not to mention Thomas’ position on the ruling council, but compared to the pandemonium that was Emily Kaldwin’s first three months as Empress, this is positively idyllic.

The thing that’s keeping him busiest these days is renewing contact with the other Isles now that the trade routes have reopened. Only months ago did he send some of the Whalers out to the other nations, for them to set up their own network of spies there so the Spymaster’s Office will have a close handle on all dealings around the Empire. Ardan and Fergus went to Morley, Nicholas and Aleksander to Tyvia, and Jenkins and Patrick to Serkonos. It was a difficult process, selecting the people who would leave Gristol, especially considering the fact that the Arcane Bond becomes significantly weaker over the long distance. Daud can still sense them, and summon them if needed, though at a great cost of power, so they will have to rely on their natural abilities more than anything, and they’ll be cut off from the rest of their family for a long period of time.

But Thomas has known these men and women for years, and they are the only ones he trusts with a task this vital. Besides, Jenkins practically vibrated a hole in the floor when he told her he wanted to send her to Serkonos, and then tackled him in a hug when he said he was sending Patrick along with her. Not in love, his behind.

Serkonos, however, is the least of Thomas’ worries. Duke Theodanis Abele is a just and fair ruler, and he was the first to lift the blockades and re-establish contact with Dunwall. Tyvia followed Serkonos’ example, the High Judges also seeing merit in re-opening the trade routes, and then Morley had no choice but to go along, lest they be left out of the international market completely. Not that they were happy about it. Since the Insurrection, Morley has always been difficult.

Luckily, Hiram Burrows was aware of this, and despite his many, many flaws, he did keep eyes on Morley, and wrote extensive reports. Loathe as he is to make use of his predecessor’s resources, Thomas has to admit Burrows’ vigilance makes his job a lot less straining.

He still has to stay on top of things, since he doesn’t trust any of Burrows’ spies and insisted the Whalers he sent to the other Isles set up their own network, but his affairs are manageable. He has time to sleep, at least.

Thomas spends most of his nights in Daud’s bed these days, barring the times when Daud has to accompany Emily out of the city or Thomas has to personally lead an important operation well into the night. The Royal Protector’s quarters have become more _theirs_ than just Daud’s, while the Royal Spymaster’s chambers are still cold and impersonal. The maids find it fascinating, and Thomas has heard the palace’s staff gossip about him on more than one occasion, wondering why no one actually knows anything about Thomas Carmine, how he managed to stay out of the public eye for so long, why he seems to be the only one who can look the Royal Protector – The Knife of Dunwall, they whisper, the _assassin_ – in the eye without flinching.

It’s as amusing as it is exasperating. Thomas considers it a stroke of luck that Daud’s presence is so intimidating none of the maids dare to enter his personal quarters while he’s there. If any of the servants ever saw the Royal Spymaster sharing the Royal Protector’s bed, Parliament would implode.

Of course, Parliament implodes about once a week in any case, so Thomas can’t be too concerned about the concept of discovery.

That night, he transverses to Daud’s chambers after dinner as he always does, with the knowledge that Daud will arrive after seeing the Empress to her own quarters. Unlike Thomas’, Daud’s day is structured, and revolves completely around Emily Kaldwin. It’s become rather easy to predict his routine.

While he waits, Thomas picks a book from Daud’s shelf and settles in his usual chair near the fireplace. This book is one of Daud’s oldest, and it’s written in Serkonan, which Thomas has been painstakingly learning since the day Daud called him cariño in that deep voice with those beautiful rounded vowels. Thomas wants to be able to understand his beloved’s native tongue, wants to be able to communicate in it, if only so he can mutter sweet nothings at Daud during a state function without being understood by anyone else.

The mere thought brings a sly smile to his face. If he can manage to make Daud blush at a parliamentary meeting, his life will truly be complete.

He reads for a while, slowly working his way through three chapters in the unfamiliar language, determined to understand the story without having to look up any of the words. It’s a decent way to pass the time, but after nearly two hours without any sign of Daud, Thomas finds he can’t focus well on the book anymore. Getting Emily to bed never takes this long. Something must have happened.

He’s on his feet and about to transverse out of the room when Daud transverses into it, and Thomas can only gape at his crumpled Protector’s coat and red, puffy eyes, creating an image of hopelessness Thomas never thought he would see. Not in Daud.

“What happened?” he asks immediately, closing the distance between them with two long strides. “Are you alright? Is Emily alright?”

Daud stares at him, opens his mouth as if to say something, thinks the better of it, shakes his head. Then grabs the high collar of Thomas’ Spymaster’s coat and buries his face in his neck, breathing erratically as though he’s fighting back more tears.

Thomas lets him. “Daud,” he mutters, “I need to know if – just nod if no one is in mortal danger, alright?”

Daud nods against his collarbone, letting out a sound like a wounded animal in the process, and Thomas wraps his arms around him, holds him tightly and strokes a soothing hand through his hair. He’s trembling. Whatever this is – and it must be something big, because this isn’t Daud, Daud isn’t like this – Thomas will be here for him. He’ll always be here for Daud.

It’s a while before Daud’s breath slows and the shivers stop, and only then does Thomas dare to repeat his question. “What happened?” he inquires again, gently. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“Emily,” Daud rasps into his collar, before having to clear his throat. “Emily, she – she called me ‘Dad’.”

Thomas stiffens. “Oh,” is all he can say, dumbly, because Void, he was not expecting that. Kidnapping, murder, the Empress’ body being taken over by a mad witch – sure. But this? Not in a million years.

And yet it’s not that surprising, after the initial shock of it has worn off. A lot of the Whalers have called Daud ‘Dad’ at some point. Billie did once, and vehemently denied it until the day she was banished. Rulfio has, even though he’s older than Daud. Void, Yuri’s done it so often they decided to just own their mistake and dub him ‘Dad’ permanently. Emily Kaldwin isn’t a Whaler, but Daud has been treating her like one – like family. It’s no wonder she would slip up, with no other parental figure left in her life.

“Are you… alright?” Thomas asks hesitantly. ‘Alright’ is not an applicable word in this situation. “Is she?”

Daud lifts his head, and despite everything, his eyes are calm. “Yes.”

And then he kisses Thomas, softly, unhurriedly, and Thomas knows he’s telling the truth.

* * *

He’s supposed to be allowed to sleep in today.

With Rulfio guarding the Empress and Rinaldo taking care of the Whalers’ morning briefing, Thomas is supposed to be allowed a few extra hours of rest, a few extra hours of lying in bed with Daud’s head resting on his shoulder and his arm draped across his chest. He is supposed to be allowed _peace_.

But exactly half an hour after the time they normally get up, Thomas and Daud are awoken by Rinaldo transversing into the room.

“Master Daud,” he begins hurriedly, none of the Whalers ever having stopped addressing him as ‘Master’, “we’ve a problem. Kieron’s reported some new group of extremists calling themselves ‘The Regenters’ and it seems they’re hell-bent on getting Empress Emily deposed and I can’t find Thomas anywhere and we need –”

“I’ll be there in five,” Thomas says as he sits up, disentangling himself from Daud’s hold so he can get out of bed. “Send some men ahead to keep eyes on the situation, and have Kieron ready to report.”

Rinaldo just stares at him, mouth agape.

“Now, Rinaldo!” Thomas barks, and despite the unauthoritative figure he must cut, bare-chested and shoulder-length hair in disarray, his tone has Rinaldo snapping into a salute and vanishing with the Void.

“Outsider’s eyes,” he mutters, dragging a hand across his face. This is just what he needs this early in the morning.

Daud opens one bleary eye to look at him, his head still buried between the pillows. “Looks like you’ll have a busy morning.”

“You’re useless,” Thomas says fondly, bending down to peck Daud’s lips before hurrying into the bathroom to clean himself up and don his uniform.

When he transverses into his office, located covertly in and old, closed-off wing of the Tower, Kieron is waiting for him at his desk.

“Report,” Thomas says briskly, pointedly ignoring the way most of his men are staring at him. Rinaldo never could keep his mouth shut. “Sometime today, Kieron.”

“Ah, yes sir,” Kieron starts, and he gestures to a piece of paper he’s left atop Thomas’ desk. It’s clear from the crumpled page and the hurried handwriting that he’s written his observations while still out in the field. “We’ve come across a group of people calling themselves ‘The Regenters’. They seem to be extremists, a militia even, dedicated to re-instating the policies Hiram Burrows implemented during his regency. They’re in direct opposition of the Empress’ rule.”

Voiddammit. “Do you deem them a threat?”

“Not at present, but if they grow in numbers…”

They could become a real problem. “They’re in the Estate District?” Thomas inquires as he skims Kieron’s notes. Of course they’re nobles. No one else would dream of returning to the old Regent’s ways.

“Lady Triss’ manor,” Kieron nods. “They were having a meeting when I spied them, in the middle of the night. I think Lord Estermont is one of them too.”

Thomas snorts derisively. “Seems Estermont junior forgot what happened to his uncle during the plague.” He’d overheard one of the Golden Cat’s courtesans tell the story to Morgan Pendleton, of how the old Lord Estermont was eaten alive by plague rats. “Kieron, take Yuri and Dimitri and stake out Estermont’s estate. Get whatever information you can, but don’t get caught. If he knows we’re on to him, he’ll burn his bridges before we can blink.”

“Yes sir,” Kieron salutes him, turning away from Thomas’ desk and hollering into the hallway, in a deafeningly loud voice: “Oi, Yuri, Dimi! We’ve a job, let’s go!”

Thomas rubs his temples. He hasn’t even had his morning coffee yet.

“Rin,” he calls next, and Rinaldo is at his side in an instant, “get Quinn and Feodor. We’re going to the Estate District.”

Fifteen minutes later, he’s heading his small team across Dunwall’s rooftops, zeroing in on Lady Ella Triss’ home. She lives at the edge of the district, her wealth not substantial enough to warrant her a manor in the heart of the upper class. Thomas can see why she would want Hiram Burrows’ policies back in effect. She’s exactly the person they’re tailor-made for; wealthy enough to escape the purge, yet not so rich as to be forced to pay more taxes to fund the additional security measures.

“We’re breaking in,” Thomas announces when they have a good vantage point of the manor. “We need information, and her guard is minimal. I’ll search her chambers. Quinn, take the basement, Rinaldo, the ground floor. Feodor, stay here and keep an eye on the situation.”

He barely waits for their acknowledgements before he transverses to the balcony of the manor’s upper floor. There, he pauses. Kieron overheard the Regenters’ meeting deep into the night; Lady Triss is quite likely still asleep, and he aspires to keep it that way, so Thomas taps into the Void and lets it guide his Gaze.

As he suspected, Ella Triss is in her bedroom, seemingly fast asleep. There’s a maid in the dining room, and a single guard near the stairs; easily avoidable, though he’ll have to keep an eye on them to ensure they don’t interrupt his search. And there, in the corner of his eye –

A rune.

Thomas stops and stares at the curious shape that stays in his peripheral vision no matter which way he looks, its sharp outline rippling outward when he looks directly at it. It’s unmistakably a rune; he’s seen plenty of the artefacts before, has studied the Mark of the Outsider carved into the bone while it hissed a tune of the Void. They’re the fuel of Daud’s power, and consequently of Thomas’ own, though Daud has long since stopped collecting the pieces of whale bone, his powers already at their height.

But to see a rune with his Void Gaze… Thomas has never been able to before, that much he knows for certain. But then there was also a time when he couldn’t jump several feet into the air, something he can’t imagine going without now that he’s grown used to it. Perhaps this is just another expansion of his powers, brought about by his proximity to Daud. He’s not about to complain.

But the presence of the rune is distracting, his Gaze guiding him towards it when he really should be looking out for possible intruders, and it’s impossible not to give in. Before long, he’s pushing aside a bookcase, inching it away from the wall as to not awaken the woman sleeping in the next room.

There’s a shrine to the Outsider tucked into an alcove behind the bookcase, hidden from prying eyes. If Thomas’ Void Gaze hadn’t shown him the way, he would never have known this was here.

Carefully, he pushes the bookcase back in place. He doesn’t need the rune, and taking it will only serve as evidence of an intruder. But he files the knowledge away for later. If need be, he can send word of the existence of this shrine to High Overseer Khulan. The Spymaster’s Office has a decent relationship with the Abbey, since the Overseers don’t know Thomas and the others are Daud’s followers, their lack of Mark proving no connection to the Outsider. And the new High Overseer is more tolerant than most; when the Feast of Painted Kettles was announced after Martin’s death, Thomas used the knowledge from Campbell’s black book to have a fair but unzealous man appointed to office. It’s saved them a lot of hassle.

With the Abbey’s assistance, he can have Ella Triss locked away for a good long while.

But not yet. First, he needs information on the Regenters. They can’t know the Royal Spymaster is on to them until he knows exactly who they are. Then it shouldn’t be hard to have Curnow and his men round them up.

Thomas begins by rifling through Lady Triss’ desk, and he strikes gold almost immediately. A notebook logging the meetings of the Regenters awaits him in the top drawer, complete with names and dates. If only all his jobs were this easy.

He copies the names and some of the more important plans onto a sheet of paper before replacing the journal in its original place. She’ll be none the wiser.

He’s out long before Ella Triss wakes up.

* * *

The day is long.

Thomas has nearly his whole force of spies out in the field, keeping eyes on the aristocrats mentioned in Lady Triss’ notebook. He personally spends most of the day discussing this new, unfortunate development with Commander Curnow of the City Watch, and then going through the extensive reports some of the Whalers have left on his desk regarding the potential Regenters they’ve been stalking.

By the time dinner rolls around, he’s exhausted, and not even close to done for the day.

Thomas eats in his office, in the company of the handful of Whalers who aren’t out stalking nobles. He has one eye on a report and the other on the cup of coffee he’s nursing, and he’s paying the others no mind.

Of course, the moment of rest can’t last. “So,” Misha says loudly, catching his attention. When he looks up at her, she grins. “You and Daud, huh?”

Thomas keeps his face carefully neutral. “Indeed,” he confirms, because there’s little point denying it when Rinaldo literally caught them in bed together. “Daud and I.”

He returns to the report at his elbow, and he can practically see the annoyed scowl on Misha’s face. It takes a lot not to grin. “How did that happen?” Misha pushes ahead fearlessly. “I could’ve sworn the boss was frigid.”

Thomas thinks of the warmth in Daud’s eyes when he smiles at him, and he can only disagree. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern,” is what he says. He’s not inclined to explain the finer details of his relationship with Daud. They may not have sex, because Daud simply doesn’t want that, but that doesn’t take away from anything. Thomas loves Daud, fiercely and unconditionally. He can take care of his own urges by himself.

“Really?” Misha groans dramatically. “You hook up with the boss and you’re not going to tell us _anything_?”

Thomas smiles benignly at her. “Exactly. Thank you for understanding.”

Feodor snorts into his pudding. Misha holds his gaze for a good few seconds before she backs off, crossing her arms huffily. “You’re no fun, Thom.”

“I know.”

Misha is quiet for all but half a minute before she tries again. “But seriously, how long has this been going on?”

Thomas sighs. “Since Daud returned from Coldridge.”

“What?!” Misha all but shrieks. “That was a year and a half ago!”

“Then it’s been going on for a year and a half,” Thomas spells out the conclusion for her.

“And you never thought to tell us?” she splutters.

Thomas shrugs. “You never asked.”

Misha throws up her hands. “So what, were we supposed to _ask_ if you were involved with the boss?”

“Absolutely not, no,” Thomas says mildly.

Misha opens her mouth to retort, but Killian interrupts her. “Leave it alone, Mish,” he advises. “They’re adults, they can do whatever they want.”

Misha turns on him. “Oh, come on!” she exclaims, peeved. “When Quinn and I got together none of you would get off our backs for weeks!”

“Well, yeah,” Killian shrugs, “but that’s because you’re…”

“Because we’re _what_, Killi?” Misha growls, daring him to finish his sentence.

“Not our bosses,” Killian continues calmly. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy desk duty for the rest of the year.”

It’s amusing to see how quickly Misha deflates. “Ah. Right you are. Sorry, Thom.”

Thomas nods, and that’s the end of it. At least, that’s the end of it until two minutes later, when Misha can’t contain herself any longer. “Just one question.”

Thomas stifles a disgruntled groan and drains the last of his coffee. “Just one,” he agrees, resigned.

Misha looks him in the eye, her face uncharacteristically serious. “Are you happy?”

That, at least, he can answer easily. “I am,” he says, his lips curling into a soft smile. “And I like to think he is, too.”

Misha returns his smile. “Well, alright then.”

She goes back to her pudding, and that’s that. The Whalers are family, a bond forged not through blood, but through shared experience, and a little bit of black magic. They care for one another’s happiness. And having his relationship with Daud out in the open – having it be accepted by the others – is more of a relief than Thomas thought it would be.

And Thomas understands where his new ability has come from.

He can See because he is seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To know exactly what happened between Daud and Emily, please go [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18186938/chapters/49034807) for some extra feels.


	3. Blink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 100% on [pedgeon](https://rookdaw.tumblr.com) and this ridiculously beautiful [art](https://rookdaw.tumblr.com/post/186508620675/there-are-more-men-than-women-invited-to-the) which I love more than life itself.

Four years into the reign of Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin I, Royal Spymaster Thomas Oleander Carmine is content.

Dunwall is stable. The Flooded District has been drained and rebuilt, the economy has nearly fully righted itself, and Emily Kaldwin is beloved by her people. Where the city used to be made up of disasters waiting to happen, with only the occasional moment of respite, now it is calm, and self-sufficient. ‘Peaceful’ has never been the right word to describe Dunwall, the capital of the Empire simply too much of a metropolis, but the city has pulled itself together admirably, and truly noteworthy incidents are few and far in between.

There was one such incident some months ago, when the last of the Regenters in Dunwall made a desperate, ill-thought-out attempt on Emily’s life. The attack was unplanned, impossible to predict even by Thomas’ effective Spymaster’s Office. A grenade made its way into the Empress’ carriage, but Daud bent time and extracted it before it could do any harm. Though he shouldn’t have bothered; according to Daud, he plucked the live grenade from the hand of Emily’s friend, Alexi Mayhew, who’d been ready to lob the thing right back at their assailants.

Daud recommended her for the Watch, and Curnow has ensured she’ll have a spot in their ranks when she turns eighteen.

He told Thomas, in confidence, that he’s going to train the girl to be his successor. Alexi is one of the few people Emily truly trusts, and she’s brave and quick-witted. With the proper training, she’ll be prepared for the position of Royal Protector by the time Daud is ready to retire.

Until that day, however, Daud needs to keep his reflexes sharp, so whenever Emily has lessons and Thomas isn’t wrapped up in a matter of national security, they head for a secluded spot and spar. Away from prying eyes, steel and magic can fly without preamble. And when all is said and done, they sit on a rooftop and kiss the bruises they inflicted on one another.

It’s when he’s heading back to his office from one of those sparring sessions, out of breath and desperately in need of a shower, when he’s halted in the hallway.

“Ah, there he is. Thomas, my good man! A word, if I may.”

Thomas turns to see Lord Treavor Pendleton heading his way, followed closely by his ever-present manservant Wallace, and, to his mild surprise, Lady Waverly Boyle. “Treavor,” Thomas returns evenly. “Lady Boyle. Wallace.” He nods to each of them in turn. “What can I do for you?”

Pendleton seems awfully excited about something, a wide grin on his face and his chest puffed out proudly. “We’d like to discuss the security for our forthcoming nuptials,” he says happily. “Commander Curnow will be overseeing the immediate surveillance, of course, but we’d like to be sure our guest list does not contain anyone of ill bearing. If you’d be so kind?”

He hands Thomas a small stack of papers, all filled with names. “Nuptials?” he inquires as he thumbs through the pages. He’s not particularly surprised; Treavor Pendleton has always liked Waverly Boyle, and Waverly… well, she ought to be pleased she’ll be wed to Gristol’s Prime Minister, at least. “My most sincere congratulations. When will the wedding take place?”

“Next week.”

Thomas falters. “Next… week?”

“I’ve always wanted to be married in the Month of Rain. It’s good luck, they say,” Waverly comments offhandedly. “Her Majesty was most accommodating. The High Overseer himself will wed us, and we’re to have our reception right here in the Tower. We’d just like to ensure no undesirables attend our special day.” Her face twists into something apologetic, a well-crafted mask perfected by years of pretending. “Unless, of course, it’s too much trouble? You are a busy man after all, Lord Spymaster. We wouldn’t want to overburden you.”

She knows damn well just how much work she’s saddling him with. There are countless unfamiliar names on the list Pendleton handed him, distant relatives and nobles from out of town unworthy of prior investigation. He considers himself lucky the short notice doesn’t allow her to invite anyone from the other Isles. “Nonsense,” he waves away her feigned protestations. “I’d be running a poor operation if I could not manage this, Lady Boyle.”

“Quite so,” Waverly is quick to agree. “The very last thing I want is a repeat of my masquerade.”

Behind her, Pendleton shoots Thomas a wry smile. Even after all these years, Waverly Boyle doesn’t know that it’s Thomas who took her away from her own party and locked her in the Hound Pits’ kennels. In fact, no one outside of the immediate conspiracy knows anything about Thomas’ role in it. To the rest of the world, he is merely a noble Lord, the head of the ancient Carmine family, and a halfway decent Royal Spymaster. Even if Thomas were to publicly announce his past as an assassin, and his worst crime of murdering the previous Royal Protector, it’s likely that no one would believe him.

“There will be no undesirables at your wedding, my Lady,” Thomas promises. “I shall ensure it.”

Unless, of course, she counts the two very men who kidnapped her from her home four years ago among the undesirables.

* * *

“Does he _ever_ smile?”

“He looks like he’s ready to kill all of us.”

“He would.”

“He could.”

“He _should_. This is a dreadfully dull affair.”

“Adelle, you’re incorrigible!”

The noble guests’ favourite pastime, it seems, is gossiping. And tonight, on the eve of Treavor and Waverly Pendleton’s wedding, their topic of choice is Daud.

It’s no wonder, really. Daud has sequestered himself from everyone else, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching Emily Kaldwin like a hawk. The Empress seems to be having a decent time, having spent at least an hour now on the dancefloor, but her Royal Protector looks the pinnacle of displeasure, a deep scowl etched into his features. All the other guests are giving him a wide berth; if Daud were to position himself next to the table holding the alcohol, no one would dare to get a drink.

“You work with him, Lord Spymaster. Is he always like that?”

_Yes_, Thomas thinks, fondly. “Like what, Lord Crawford?”

“So… so…” Crawford gestures in Daud’s general direction, as if that explains everything.

“Intimidating?” Thomas supplies. “He must be. He is Her Majesty’s Lord Protector, after all.”

“Oh, sure,” Ms. White interjects, waving her hand dismissively, “but he doesn’t have to look so sour. This is a party!”

“Perhaps you should ask him for a dance, see if it cheers him up,” Lord Ramsey suggests to her, and that has the whole gathering in hysterics.

“Can you imagine asking him to dance?” Lady Blair nearly chokes on her drink. “He’d kill you where you stand.”

“Oh, but I’d like to see that, though,” Ms. White grins wickedly. “A hundred coin for whoever gets the Royal Protector onto the dancefloor!”

“And a hundred from me!” Ramsey adds.

“And me!” Blair giggles.

Others also pledge their riches, and there’s over a thousand coin offered before long, all for something Thomas has wanted to do since the day of the Boyles’ masquerade party. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up.

“If you insist,” he says, making a show of knocking back his drink (pear soda, but they don’t know that) and rolling his shoulders.

“Good man, Carmine!” Crawford exclaims, smacking Thomas’ back good-naturedly. He’s already quite intoxicated. “If you don’t make it back, we’ll spend the coin we bet on your funeral instead.”

“Much appreciated,” Thomas drawls, raising his empty tumbler in a mock salute. “I’d like an oak casket, and orchids, if possible.”

He sets down the glass and crosses the ballroom, skirting along the edge of the dancefloor to make it to the corner where Daud has positioned himself.

Daud notices him approach, and his face softens somewhat. “Sick of the nobles already?”

“I was sick of the nobles before I got here,” Thomas responds, earning him a smirk. “Though I’ll admit they have some very creative ideas tonight.”

Daud raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?”

Probably not. “Well, for one, there’s currently twelve hundred coin on offer for whoever gets you to dance with them.”

“You’re shitting me,” Daud says flatly, the scowl returning. “They’re going to be bothering me all damn evening now?”

“Oh no, they’re all terrified of you,” Thomas assuages his fears. “None of the nobles would dare to ask you to dance. Except for one.”

He bows, extending a hand towards Daud in a formal invitation to dance.

Daud stares at him for a good few seconds before he finds his voice. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Thomas asks mildly, as he tries to stop his hands from shaking, his heart from pounding. Even after four years together, Daud still manages to have this effect on him.

“I don’t dance,” Daud admits, looking away. “I never learned.”

“I can teach you,” Thomas offers. “You’d be good at it. It’s not unlike sword fighting.”

“I get to stab people?” Daud asks wryly.

Thomas laughs. “It’s all in the footwork, I mean.”

Daud hums noncommittally, still uncertain, and Thomas attempts a different tactic. “Twelve hundred coin, Daud,” he reminds him. “You could finally get that voltaic gun you’ve been eyeing on the black market.”

“Oh, that’s low,” Daud grumbles, narrowing his eyes at his partner. But it’s easy to see his resolve crumbling. “_Fine_, you sneaky bastard.” He finally uncrosses his arms and takes Thomas’ offered hand. “But I’m going to step on your toes.”

Thomas can’t quite keep himself from smiling. “Is that a prediction or a threat?”

“Guess.”

A threat, then. “Good thing I hate these shoes anyway,” Thomas counters smoothly as he guides Daud onto the dancefloor, the Voidawful heeled shoes that go with his formal attire clicking on the polished floor as if to emphasise his point.

It’s almost funny to see how quickly the nobles scatter at the sight of Daud, scampering off of the dancefloor as if the Royal Protector’s mere proximity could do them harm. Even Emily’s current partner abandons her, the honour of dancing with the Empress not enough to make him stay. It has the unfortunate side effect of leaving the floor completely empty but for the two of them, and every noble and their mother is watching the Royal Spymaster lead the Royal Protector onto the dancefloor.

“They’re staring,” Daud grumbles discontentedly as Thomas places a hand on his hip, drawing him in.

Thomas laces his fingers with Daud’s. “Let them.”

He eases them into the first steps of a basic waltz, the slow music a lovely accompaniment. Despite Daud’s impractical heavy Protector’s coat and his inexperience, he follows Thomas’ lead admirably, if not always with the exact correct steps – until someone laughs, and Daud’s head snaps up to find the source of the sound. His glare halts the laughter immediately, but it also unbalances him, and he makes good on his threat to squash Thomas’ toes.

Thomas slips his hand under Daud’s coat and pulls him closer. “Don’t look at them,” Thomas implores. “Look at me.”

Daud does, and his movements smoothen. “Alright, cariño.”

Thomas smiles at the term of endearment. Daud is never superfluous when it comes to matters of romance, but he tries, and Thomas delights in the fact that there is no one else who gets to hear the word ‘cariño’ from Daud’s lips, who gets to kiss him, who gets to hold him at night. Who gets to dance with him.

At some point, Emily coaxes Alexi onto the floor, and Sokolov all but drags Piero along in a Tyvian-style dance that doesn’t go with the music at all. But Thomas can only see Daud, and it’s as though the rest of the world has simply ceased to exist, as though Daud has bent time and the others are black-and-white statues serving as a mere backdrop to their colourful movement. As long as the music plays, as long as he has Daud in his arms, nothing else matters.

Of course, the music has to end sometime, and when it does, Thomas steps away and bows in thanks, as is custom. Daud mirrors him, and then, without warning, the world around them truly stops in its tracks, whispers of the Void in every breath. “Daud, what –”

His question is cut off when Daud steps up and kisses him with such fervour it leaves Thomas breathless, desperately clinging to the lapels of Daud’s coat to keep his weakened knees from buckling. “Damn you and your Voiddamned dance,” Daud pants when they break apart, a blush barely visible on his tan skin. “I want the _upgraded_ voltaic gun.”

He sinks back into a bow and lets time resume before Thomas can respond, before he can even begin to gather his thoughts after _that_. He just stands and stares even as Daud leaves the floor, returning to his corner, and he would have looked quite the fool if the Empress herself hadn’t decided to grace him with her presence.

“Thomas, dance with me next!” Emily exclaims as she all but launches herself at him, a wide grin on her face. At only just fifteen, reigning as Empress for over four years now, she can hardly be called a child anymore. But at parties such as this one, celebrations where she is but a guest, Emily partakes in dance and food and drink, allowing herself to be swept away by the frivolity. It’s the closest she can get to freedom, barring the times Daud takes her out on the rooftops for training, and she always makes the most of it.

Her proximity is grounding. “Of course, Your Majesty,” Thomas agrees, taking her hand and leading her into an easy rhythm. But despite the fact that the Empress of the Isles is his new dance partner, he can’t help but look back at Daud, who’s watching the two of them just as intently. Whether that’s because he’s doing his job as Emily’s Royal Protector or because he, too, can’t quite manage to keep his eyes off of Thomas is up for debate.

Emily follows his gaze. “You really love him, don’t you?”

There’s an undertone of wistfulness in her voice that Thomas would have picked up on if he weren’t still in something of a daze. “Yes,” he murmurs, his eyes still on Daud, “I really do.”

“You look at him the same way Corvo used to look at Mother.”

That snaps Thomas back to the present right quick. “What?”

Emily gently squeezes their intertwined hands. “It’s funny,” she says, even if it really isn’t. “You’re a lot like Corvo, you know. But Daud isn’t anything like Mother.”

“I’m a lot like –?” Thomas can’t wrap his head around the thought. “Emily, I killed him.”

“To protect Daud,” Emily adds. “And he would have killed you to protect Mother.”

That’s true. And Thomas, despite himself, can’t stop the huff of incredulous laughter that escapes him. “You’re cleverer than your advisors give you credit for, Em.”

Emily smiles softly. “And Corvo used to call me ‘Em’, too.”

* * *

It’s closer to dawn than to midnight when Thomas finally escapes the ballroom, ducking out onto one of the balconies to get a breath of fresh air. The party has long since wound down, now only a few unconcerned nobles left, sitting on pillows on the floor while passing around a hookah. The thick, sweet scent of the white leaf tobacco was more than enough reason for Thomas to excuse himself, citing his job as an ever-effective excuse. Can’t have the Royal Spymaster blazed out of his mind, after all.

Daud left hours ago, escorting a half-drunk Empress back to her chambers, while Thomas was left at the mercy of the intoxicated nobility. Social gatherings like this, when the aristocrats drink and make merry without a care in the world, are an integral part of the Spymaster’s job. In the past few hours alone Thomas has learned more secrets than his Office’s collective force tends to gather in a month’s worth of espionage, the alcohol and his own status as a noble loosening a lot of tongues. It was a useful evening, if not utterly excruciating, and Thomas is glad to be able to leave. Once the hookah comes out, no one has anything intelligent left to say in any case.

Eager to go to bed, Thomas steps onto the balcony’s balustrade and prepares to transverse, wanting to take the quickest route back to the Royal Protector’s quarters. He jumps, his increased agility carrying him up high, and clenches his left hand into a fist.

Everything around him stops dead in its tracks, and Thomas is suspended in mid-air.

It’s almost as if Daud has bent time, the world halted in grey – except this isn’t Daud. This is Thomas. He can feel time clenched in his fist, the energy of his impending transversal burning up his arm when he doesn’t release it. But he only has so much energy, and time is yanked from his fingers, his transversal negated, and Thomas lands, hard, back atop the balustrade. He barely catches himself, hopping back down to the balcony to avoid teetering off the wrong side. His breath stuck in his throat, he clenches his fist again, experimentally, and again he grasps a hold of time.

“What in the Void…” he mutters, uncurling his fingers to let time resume. He’s not bending time – he has a fraction of that particular power, able to slow time but not halt it, and that’s… different. Not like this. Not as though the whole world is waiting for him to transverse, as if in that particular moment time holds its breath. He’s never been able to do anything like this before.

Thomas doesn’t trust his power like this, not when he doesn’t know how it works. His increased agility was entirely new, and the ability to see runes and bonecharms with his Void Gaze was just an added feature to an existing skill. But this changes the fundamentals of his most vital power, saps his energy even when he’s only aiming, and he can’t rely on it when he doesn’t know how to handle it.

He needs to ask Daud about this.

Thomas heads back into the ballroom, weaving his way through the thick smoke to escape into the hallway, and then thunders up the stairs two steps at a time, making a beeline for the Royal Protector’s quarters.

In all the years he’s lived here, Thomas has never once entered through the door, so it’s no surprise that the minute he barges in, Daud is on his feet and gripping his shoulders.

“What is it, what happened? Are you alright?”

Thomas kicks the door closed. “There’s something wrong with my transversals.”

Daud frowns in concern, and his Mark flares briefly. “The Bond is fine,” he muses, and Thomas can feel the brief tug at the very much intact Bond. “What’s wrong with your transversals?”

“Here,” Thomas says, stripping himself of one of his dress gloves, “I’ll show you.”

He tosses the glove up in the air, and then gathers the energy he would need to transverse.

The glove’s momentum stops, leaving it hanging between them.

Daud cocks his head to regard it, and then he laughs. “There’s nothing wrong with your transversals, cariño.”

Thomas lets the energy ebb away, and the glove drops to the floor. “Then what _is_ this?” he demands, frustrated.

“You’re stopping time, briefly,” Daud explains. “Just as long as you’re aiming your transversal. It’s part of my power.”

“Part of your – you always do this?”

Daud nods. “It’ll take some getting used to, but it’s not hard to learn. It’s like… seizing a moment.”

“Right,” Thomas huffs, relieved. “Like finding the right time to ask the Royal Protector for a dance?”

Daud smiles and cups his cheek. “Exactly.”

And that makes Thomas understand.

He can seize the moment because he seized his moment.


	4. Bend Time

Eight years into the reign of Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin I, Royal Spymaster Thomas Oleander Carmine is tired.

It’s been a difficult year for all of them. With Emily’s coming of age, a lot has changed around the Tower. The council she appointed to be her regent has been disassembled, the Empress’ adulthood allowing her to make rulings without the need for anyone to oversee, and Emily’s been floundering, still coming to Daud and Thomas and Geoff Curnow for advice more often than she probably should. Now that she’s truly a ruler, her lessons have ceased, which prompted Callista Curnow to leave the palace and take to the seas, as she’s always dreamed of doing. Emily sent her on her way with a hefty amount of coin and an even larger amount of tears as she watched the woman who’s the closest thing she’s had to a mother since Jessamine Kaldwin’s death sail away.

Only weeks later, Royal Physicians Anton Sokolov and Piero Joplin announced their retirement. With old age catching up with them and Piero’s brain fevers getting worse every day, the natural philosophers wished to spend their remaining years in peace, with each other. Emily couldn’t have denied them if she wanted to.

And not two months ago, word came from the Royal Navy that Samuel Beechworth passed away. He died of old age, deep in the bowels of the ship he captained, and they say he went with a smile on his face. But that hasn’t stopped anyone who knew him from mourning the kind sailor who always had a cup of tea and some wisdom to share. Even Daud had had a hard time blinking away tears when they buried him by the sea, staying strong only for Emily’s sake.

To make up for the misery, Daud has been using every minute of his and Emily’s spare time to train her, teaching her how to fight and sneak and make her way across the rooftops without plummeting to her death. And whenever Emily has a meeting Daud is not required to attend, he’s down at the training grounds, overseeing a newly appointed Alexi Mayhew’s induction into the City Watch. The girl used to be as scared of him as everyone else when she was younger, but ever since the Regenters’ attack back when she was fourteen, she’s taken a shine to him.

The same cannot be said for the other members of the Watch.

“I need you to stand in for Curnow this afternoon,” Daud says the minute he steps into Thomas’ office that morning.

“Good morning to you too, love,” Thomas lilts, not taking his eyes of the report he’s skimming. “How was breakfast with the Tyvian dignitaries?”

“Excruciating,” Daud grumbles.

“Do tell.”

“Thomas, for Void’s sake.”

Thomas laughs and lays his paperwork aside, lacing his fingers together as he regards Daud. “You need me to stand in for Curnow this afternoon.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He’s injured,” Daud explains. “Riot between Bottle Street and the Eels.”

“And what, exactly, would you have me do?” Thomas inquires.

“Spar with me.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Spar with you.”

“I’ve been helping Curnow teach the Watchmen some new techniques,” Daud elaborates. “We were supposed to have a match today to show the proper application. But he went and got himself injured, so I need a new partner.”

“And you can’t just have another Watchman stand in for him because…?”

“They’d piss themselves,” Daud says flatly.

“Fair enough,” Thomas chuckles. It’s been eight years since Daud carried the moniker ‘The Knife of Dunwall’, but people have not forgotten. Voluntarily allowing him to point a sword at you is still the equivalent of suicide in most people’s eyes. “Practice blades or live steel?”

“Live steel.”

“When do you need me?”

“Always,” Daud murmurs, his eyes sincere. “But for this specifically, after lunch.”

“Alright,” Thomas agrees, and Daud leans across the desk to press his lips against Thomas’ forehead before he vanishes with the Void.

And that’s why Thomas heads for the public training yard that afternoon, his blade at his hip. It’s a beautiful sword, thin and elegant with his symbol of office carved into its hilt, made by Piero Joplin himself. Thomas would have preferred to keep his old Whaler’s sword, if only because he’d gotten used to the broad blade, but of course, it wouldn’t be fitting for the Royal Spymaster to carry what is essentially a rusty cleaver. Besides, compared to some of the outlandish concepts Piero proposed to him – one of which was a sword that could actually _fold in half_ – the one Thomas ended up with is positively mundane.

The yard is already filled with Watchmen when he arrives, the collective force of the recruits standing in a semi-circle around their instructor, giving him much more room than strictly necessary. Curnow’s there too, sitting on a low wall with his bandaged leg stretched out before him, a crutch lying next to him. He looks rather disgruntled at having to sit this one out, his arms crossed and his lips pursed as he scrutinises Daud going through some motions with Alexi, the only one actually brave enough to stand within three feet of the Royal Protector.

Thomas steps up to stand beside him. “Lord Commander.”

“Lord Spymaster,” Curnow acknowledges him with a nod. “I take it you’re the one who’ll be taking my place today?”

“I am,” Thomas confirms, raising an eyebrow. “How did you guess?”

“You’re the only person this side of Pandyssia who isn’t scared shitless of our esteemed Lord Protector,” Curnow chuckles. “Well, the only one who can hold their own in a fight, at least.”

He’s a perceptive man, the Commander of the City Watch. Thomas has spent years meticulously constructing his persona as the Royal Spymaster, just another harmless noble, no one to take note of. Not a heretic, not an assassin, not the man who murdered the last Royal Protector. Perhaps he’s a better fencer than most, and perhaps he’s capable of getting from point A to point B a little faster than humanly possible, but that’s always attributed to his job, the Spymaster’s Office having been shrouded in an air of mystery since its inception. No one but the Whalers and the former Loyalists know who he truly is.

Curnow doesn’t know either. But he’s more suspicious than most, and not unintelligent. And thank the Outsider for that, or Daud would have died in prison all those years ago, and Thomas… well, he has no illusions he’d still be alive today if that had happened.

He’s more grateful to Geoff Curnow than he’ll ever be able to express.

“It’s unfortunate you were injured,” Thomas says. “I’ve been told you keep up rather well with the Protector.”

“Told by one of your little birds, I’m sure?” Curnow inquires, and he’s right. Killian, in particular, likes to watch the guardsmen train. He says it’s to gauge the Watch’s skill level, but Thomas suspects him of having less noble reasons. “I’ve had to step up my game by a whole damn lot since he took an interest in our training, that’s for sure,” Curnow continues. “They always say a good fighter is like a whirlwind, but he’s just one big blast of wind straight in your face.”

Thomas snorts a decidedly unlordlike laugh, because that’s completely accurate. Daud has always been one to hit hard and fast, preferring strong frontal attacks over a more fluid style of fighting. That’s not to say he can’t adopt a different pace if he has to, but few opponents can force his hand. Thomas is proud to count himself amongst them.

“Carmine!” Daud chooses that moment to bark at him, and Thomas starts despite himself. “Let’s go!”

It’s no wonder everyone is scared shitless of him, if that’s how he always is with the guards. “It seems I am wanted,” Thomas says mildly, parting from Curnow with a short bow of respect. “Lord Commander.”

“Lord Spymaster,” Curnow returns, grinning. “Good luck.”

Thomas walks through the sea of guardsmen to reach Daud, ignoring the hushed whispers all around him. It seems the cadets were not expecting this turn of events.

“The Royal Spymaster?” one of the Watchmen says disdainfully, loud enough for everyone to hear, and in the blink of an eye, Daud has rounded on him.

“Would you care to join me for this demonstration yourself, Saunders?” he asks, his mild tone of voice clashing horribly with the positively murderous look in his eyes.

The man pales alarmingly quickly. “Sir no sir!” he says quickly, the mere thought of having to face Daud in a fight having him close to fainting. “Apologies, sir!”

Thomas cannot even blame the guard for his incredulity. With his lithe figure, high-collared Spymaster’s coat, and long blond hair tied back with a blue ribbon, he can’t look like much of a match for the broad-shouldered Royal Protector. Thomas looks but a noble where Daud is the epitome of a predator.

But then looks can be deceiving.

Thomas draws his blade, spinning it lazily to loosen his wrist. He’s been writing far too much, reports and instructions and letters and more reports, and the bones of his wrist crack pleasantly with this new movement. It’s been too long since he sparred with Daud.

He takes his place opposite the Royal Protector, purposefully adapting a fencing stance – a noble’s stance. He’s sure it has some of the guardsmen rolling their eyes in exasperation, but Daud looks like he’s having a hard time keeping the grin off his face. He, of course, knows exactly what Thomas is truly capable of, how much of a farce the unsteady pose is. It doesn’t stop him from slinking into a low, aggressive stance himself, looking as though he’s ready to pounce at any given second.

“Try to keep up,” Daud advices, and that’s all the warning he gives.

Their blades clash, Thomas making use of his sword’s crossguard to deny Daud any leverage, and he breaks free quickly, darting around to strike at Daud from a different angle. Daud doesn’t even try to block, instead jumping back to create some distance between them. Thomas doesn’t give him a chance to think, charging in again immediately, but Daud is ready for him. He aims for Thomas’ legs, and Thomas drops his sword to parry, but it was a feint; Daud’s blade is held aloft instead, preparing for an overhead stab.

Thomas ducks, barely avoiding the cold kiss of steel, but the blade catches his hair, cutting the ribbon that tied it neatly together. He shakes the strands from his face, only just in time to see Daud’s sword coming down on him, and he can barely block from his awkward kneeling position. All he can do is kick at Daud’s legs, forcing his opponent to step back, and he’s standing tall again the next time their blades are locked.

He has to shake back his hair again. “Is this the reason you wanted me to grow out my hair?” he mutters the inquiry, already slightly out of breath.

Daud’s only answer is a smirk, and Thomas jumps back before Daud’s fist can make contact with his stomach. He’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then.

They trade blow after blow, the members of the City Watch looking on in awe, and it feels as though they’re back at the Hound Pits’ yard, sparring after one of young Emily’s lessons. That was a simpler time, when they weren’t the Royal Protector and Spymaster, when they were still planning to retire to Serkonos rather than stay in Dunwall. But then it was also a time before Thomas was able to call Daud his, and he wouldn’t go back for the world.

When their swords are in a lock again, Thomas breaks it by ducking, unbalancing Daud, and he steps to Daud’s unguarded left side to swing his blade at his opponent’s head.

Daud only just brings up his arm to intercept the blade, which sinks, with a sickening sound, into the flesh of his forearm.

Oh.

Thomas stares, wide-eyed, at the red dripping down Daud’s arm, the blood oozing from the wound he just _made_, tainting his sword, the sword with which he _cut Daud’s flesh_. He can’t quite comprehend it. This is live steel. Daud asked for live steel, Daud _knows_ it is live steel, and yet Daud allowed himself to be hit, brought up his arm to block rather than dodge the blow. And now he’s _bleeding_, because Thomas _hurt him_.

“Daud,” he begins, his voice hoarse, but he doesn’t get any further than that. Within the blink of an eye, he’s on the ground, Daud’s knee pressing into his chest and the Royal Protector’s sword at his throat. He’s not meeting Thomas’ eyes, his expression closed off completely, and Thomas can feel his heart thudding painfully in his chest. What has he _done_?

Just as quickly, Daud draws back, standing to address the guardsmen. “If you find yourself up against an opponent more skilled than you are, this is what you do,” he says, holding up his bleeding arm. “Allow them to believe they have the upper hand. Then, you strike.”

He goes on, describing the feint in detail, but Thomas isn’t listening anymore. There’s only one thought in his mind, a horrible, painful reality: Daud did that _on purpose_. Thomas’ blade is tainted with his love’s blood not because of an unfortunate accident, but because Daud allowed it to happen.

How _dare_ he?

Thomas gets to his feet almost mechanically, dusting some dirt off his coat. “You ought to get that tended to,” he suggests with a nod at Daud’s arm as he collects his sword, ignoring the red stain on the blade. “It could get infected if you leave it be.”

“It’s fine,” Daud says.

There has never been anything less ‘fine’. “I could give you a better reason to visit the infirmary, if you prefer.”

The threat is thinly veiled, and Daud starts, finally turning away from the officers to look at him. He must be a sight, his coat crumpled, his hair in disarray, a bloody sword clutched in his fist. But Thomas’ expression is calm, and that is the surest sign that he’s angry. His fury has always been ice cold.

They stare one another down for a few long, tense seconds, and then Daud turns on his heel and strides off the training grounds, leaving a trail of red droplets in his wake.

Thomas takes a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to wipe the blood from his blade. “A word of advice,” he offers to the huddle of guardsmen staring at him, his tone as sharp as his sword. “If you attempt a technique similar to what the Royal Protector just demonstrated, be sure you’re able to incapacitate your opponent. Or the outcome of the duel will not be in your favour.”

He sheathes his weapon. “Was there anything else you required, Lord Commander?” he addresses Curnow, politely, like the mild-mannered noble he’s supposed to be rather than the rage-fuelled assassin he feels like.

It takes Curnow a bit to find his voice. “No, I think that’ll be all,” he says, sounding utterly bemused. “Thank you for your… assistance, Lord Spymaster.”

Thomas manages a bow, perhaps more stiffly than usual, and takes his leave.

* * *

His duel with Daud is the talk of Dunwall Tower.

Not, as he suspected, because Daud pulled such an idiotic stunt and allowed himself to get cut – apparently, that’s not even worth gossiping about – but because Thomas ordered him to go see a physician, and Daud _obeyed_. And the assassin-turned-Protector isn’t exactly known for his obedience.

The constant whispers as he goes about his day do nothing to temper his anger, and even the Whalers seem more than happy to add insult to injury.

“What’d you do, Thom,” Kieron sniggers when he comes to deliver his latest report, “threaten to withhold sex?”

Thomas fixes him with the same glare he gave Daud, blankly frigid, and Kieron’s smile slides off his face right quick. He mutters something about meeting Quinn and Misha under his breath before he flees Thomas’ office, tripping over his own two feet before even thinking to transverse.

None of the others on his payroll dare to say anything after that.

When the day is done and he leaves his office, he briefly considers not returning to the Royal Protector’s chambers, but to the quarters assigned to him as Royal Spymaster. But his desire to see how Daud is doing after being injured is stronger than the anger he still feels at having been forced to be the cause of that injury, and he transverses into their shared living space regardless.

Daud is already there when he arrives, settled comfortably in his preferred chair in front of the fire, a book in hand and his pince-nez resting on his nose. Since he does not have to tuck Emily into bed at night anymore, not like he did when she was younger, he tends to get off the clock earlier than Thomas does. And Thomas suspects Emily sent him back to his quarters sooner she otherwise would have, once she’d gotten wind of his injury.

“How is your arm?” he asks, more snippy than usual, but not without concern.

“Fine,” Daud says, sounding clipped himself, and he doesn’t even bother to look at Thomas. “It’s nothing.”

Thomas wants to be angry. He wants to be furious. But his voice comes out small when he says: “It wasn’t nothing to me.”

Daud snorts. “It was one hit, because I let you. Don’t think you’ll be able to do it again.”

Ah. So it’s about his ego. “Good,” Thomas enunciates frostily, “because I don’t ever want to do anything of the sort.”

Now Daud looks up, regards him over the rim of his glasses with eyes narrowed in calculation. “Then why are you angry?” he inquires, raising an eyebrow. “If this isn’t about me beating you, then what’s the problem?”

Void, but Thomas is tempted to tell him to figure it out himself, if he’s so damn sure of his own capabilities. Daud hates not knowing things, cannot abide a mystery. It’ll drive him insane. But it’ll drive Thomas insane right along with him. The last thing he wants to do is fight. “You should have warned me you planned to let yourself get hit.”

“That would have undermined the effectiveness of the technique,” Daud shrugs. “It works best with an unaware opponent.”

“You should have told me anyway.”

“Why?” Daud asks irritably. “What would it have changed?”

“Well, for one, I would have refused to fight you in the first place!” Thomas snaps. “Voiddammit, Daud, I’m not supposed to hurt you! I am not supposed to make you bleed!” He’s yelling now. He can’t even remember the last time he shouted at someone, let alone at Daud. There was a time when the mere concept of raising his voice at Daud would have been unthinkable. But that was long ago.

“You have enough scars, and there are still people out there who’d be glad to add to them. But I am not one of those people,” Thomas continues when Daud says nothing, staring at him as though he’s lost his mind. “I am your _partner_, and I am not supposed to cause you harm. I don’t ever _want to_. So please, _please_, don’t ask it of me.”

His voice cracks, and tears blur his vision, and then it doesn’t matter anymore because all he can see is the royal blue fabric of Daud’s coat as he’s enveloped in a firm embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Daud breathes, and that’s really all Thomas needed to hear.

“It’s alright,” Thomas murmurs in return.

“It’s not fucking alright,” Daud grunts angrily. “I’ve been a Voiddamned nightmare these past few months.” Since Samuel’s funeral, he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to. “I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. Putting up with me isn’t your job anymore.”

“No, it isn’t,” Thomas agrees, smiling at the memory of the first time he blurted out those words, when he awoke in Daud’s bed, also for the first time – and the utter mortification he’d felt. They’ve come a long way since then. “Now I just put up with you for recreational purposes.”

Daud huffs, his shoulders shaking with what Thomas realises is silent laughter.

It’s alarming that he can’t quite remember the last time Daud laughed.

He pulls back from the embrace just enough so he can see Daud’s face, the warm smile that graces his lips never failing to make him look younger, even now that his hair is streaked with grey. It’s a sight Thomas will never get enough of for as long as he lives.

Daud cups his cheeks, holding his face gently. “Void, Thomas, I love you.”

And the world stops.

Not like it does when Daud uses his supernatural abilities to bend time to his will, everything turning to shades of grey as the Void blends with reality. If anything, the colours seem brighter, almost obnoxiously so, and rather than being the only one able to move, Thomas feels as though he’s the one thing that’s completely frozen.

Daud has never said that to him before.

He’s _known_, of course. They’ve been together for more than eight years now, happily, monogamously, and Thomas knows that he is loved and cherished and wanted. It’s in Daud’s eyes, in his caresses, in his kisses. But he’s never spoken the words aloud, and Thomas cannot believe such a simple phrase has such a profound effect on him.

It’s overwhelming, and it’s _wonderful_, and Thomas kisses Daud harder than he ever has before.

Daud responds in kind, wrapping an arm around Thomas’ waist to pull him closer, his other hand firmly on the back of his neck, burying itself into his hair. There’s something desperate in the way he clings to Thomas, the fierceness with which he reciprocates his affections. It’s been a stressful time, and Daud needs this as much as Thomas does.

It’s Daud who breaks the kiss, but only to trail more kisses along Thomas’ jawline, down to his neck. He’s never done that before either, not quite like this, and Thomas cannot contain the sound that escapes him as his eyes flutter closed.

But not before he sees the doorknob to Daud’s quarters turning.

He acts out of impulse more than anything, pushing hard against Daud’s chest to separate them and then immediately forming his left hand into a claw, grasping time as best he can, intending to slow it so he can transverse away unseen. But he does not stall time like he’s used to.

He stops it altogether.

“What are you –?” Daud begins, sounding vaguely hurt at the sudden separation, but Thomas only has to nod sharply at the ajar door to make him understand. “Are you… stopping time?”

“Yes, I believe I am,” Thomas mutters, marvelling at this new adjustment of his powers. It feels different than just slowing time, the very fabric of existence firmly grasped in his hand rather than consistently slipping through his fingers. Yet it’s also not the same sensation as snatching a moment when he’s preparing to transverse, the energy more contained, not begging to be released. This, this is control, complete and unequivocal.

But now is not the time to contemplate the latest development of his skillset.

Thomas can already feel the strain of holding onto time as tightly as he is, the foreign ability draining his energy astoundingly quickly. He needs to get out of the room while he still can.

First, though, he leans forward so he can kiss Daud’s cheek. “I love you too.”

He’s rewarded with a brief but wonderful glimpse of Daud’s face flushing a pretty scarlet before he transverses out into the hallway. And hardly a moment too soon, for time is quickly yanked from his grasp. He’s only just able to look around the corner to see that the person who so rudely entered Daud’s quarters without knocking is a maid, one of the bolder ones. Either she doesn’t know Daud is off duty – which is unlikely, since his schedule aligns perfectly with Emily’s – or Thomas’ insistence Daud see a physician after the duel has grossly diminished the Royal Protector’s air of intimidation.

Not that Daud isn’t capable of making himself feared again if he has to, and even out in the hallway Thomas can feel the aggressive flare of his magical aura, chasing the maid out of his chambers again right quick. On another day, he might have felt sympathy for the girl, but today he only feels vindictive pleasure watching her stumble over her own two feet and dropping her bundle of freshly laundered linen. Serves her right for interrupting the moment Thomas could have lived in forever.

This time, it’s not difficult to understand where his latest power has come from.

He can stop time because he has found the moment he never wanted to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if it's realistic for anyone to be in a relationship for eight years without ever saying 'I love you', but then I realised this is Daud, the most emotionally constipated man in the Isles, so it checks out.


	5. Summon Assassin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this chapter was written specifically to cause toothaches. Read at your own risk.

Twelve years into the reign of Empress Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin I, Royal Spymaster Thomas Oleander Carmine is _happy_.

The Empire is flourishing, Dunwall standing strong as its capital, and its people are as content as they’ve ever been. Taxes are down, yet the treasury is overflowing, so much so that Emily is having the panic room near her chambers refurbished to serve as housing for the Imperial Reserves, ensuring the Crown’s gold is easily accessible yet also impeccably protected by a high-end lock Anton Sokolov personally designed before his retirement.

The Empress herself is beloved by nearly all her citizens, not the least of which is her bodyguard-in-training Alexi Mayhew, if all the not-so-secret late-night visits are any indication. Emily’s learned how to manage her time well, balancing her duties and her training and her budding relationship with all the grace one expects from a ruler. Still, when she isn’t expected anywhere, Her Majesty has taken to hiding in Thomas’ office, of all places, where she spends her precious time off kicking the Whalers’ asses at Nancy. She says it’s because Thomas’ office is sequestered from everything else, with the whole Spymaster’s Office located in a closed-off wing of the palace, but Thomas is reasonably sure she’s chosen his office to lay low for a whole different reason. After all, wherever the Empress goes, the Royal Protector is expected to follow, and Emily has become quite the romantic since Alexi introduced her to the concept.

Not that Daud and Thomas need any help with their relationship, having been together for twelve years and counting, but Thomas appreciates the thought all the same. Having Daud in his office, even if he’s only there to keep Emily from taking all of the Whalers’ wages, is strangely relaxing. At least during those times, he can be absolutely sure Daud isn’t throwing himself between the Empress and an assassin’s blade, like his predecessor did before him.

Though assassination attempts are few and far between, the unpredictable attack by the Regenters eight years ago now the most perilous situation Emily has been in since her coronation. The people love her, and while there are always some who oppose the Kaldwin rule, none of them would ever dare go up against Daud. All in all, there is preciously little to worry about.

And Thomas can say, with complete honesty, that he is well and truly happy.

Really, the worst thing that’s happened to him all month is the fact that Jenkins’ report is a few days late.

“That’s what you get for sending Jenkins, of all people,” Feodor chuckles when he correctly interprets the frown on Thomas’ face. “You know how she gets.”

He does know. Jenkins has always been somewhat of a free spirit, and this isn’t the first time her report has been late since Thomas sent her to Serkonos. Still, ever since Duke Theodanis passed away and his son Luca was put in charge of the Isle, he likes to have his intel on Serkonos sooner rather than later. The new Duke hasn’t managed to run his homeland into the ground yet, but only because there is still enough resistance in the form of some decent people, like Aramis Stilton and Lucia Pastor. Thomas shudders to think what will happen if either of them is ever taken out of the picture.

“Nah, Feo, the problem isn’t that he sent Jenny,” Kieron says from his spot on the divan. “The problem is that he sent Pat along with her.”

Thomas can’t supress a snort at that. “Yes, because surely it would have been much better to keep them separate and miserable.”

“Hey, I’m not saying they should be separate or miserable!” Kieron argues. “Just, you know, maybe they need some supervision? Not everyone’s as, ah… professional, as you and the boss, you know.”

By ‘professional’, he, of course, means ‘cold’. Daud and Thomas hardly ever show any type of public affection, the necessity for discretion too great to allow themselves the indulgence. Not that Thomas has any reason to complain; there’s plenty of affection in their relationship behind closed doors, smiles and kisses and declarations of love freely given. It’s simply a matter of privacy. “Would you care to go to Serkonos, Kieron?” Thomas asks mildly. “To ensure the Spymaster’s forces stay… ‘professional’?”

“Not in a million years, Thom.”

Thomas smiles benignly. “Then stop badgering the Spymaster.”

Kieron falls wisely silent. All of the Whalers know that a smile like that on Thomas never bodes well.

“Please continue badgering the Spymaster, Kier,” Misha calls as she strides into Thomas’ office. “It would be so much quieter here if you got shipped off to Serkonos.”

“You know you’d miss me.”

“Yeah, like a Voidddamned toothache.”

“Was there something you needed, Misha?” Thomas interjects before they can get a momentum going. Though all the Whalers are family, Misha and Kieron tend to act like blood-related siblings more than any two others, always squabbling over nothing yet working strangely well together when out in the field.

“Got Jenny’s report,” Misha proclaims, dropping a thin file on Thomas’ desk. Thin is good. Thin means there’s been little of note. “I skimmed it; nothing we need to worry about. But I swear her handwriting gets worse every time.”

“Thank you, Misha,” Thomas says, flipping open the file to read for himself. From Jenkins’ hastily scribbled notes, it would seem there’s nothing amiss in Serkonos, at least nothing new. The new Duke has yet to prove himself a capable ruler, but Stilton and Pastor are keeping the silver mines under control, and silver is the Isle’s most important source of labour and trade. As long as the mines are handled well, there is no reason for Gristol to get involved in Serkonos’ affairs.

He’s just tucking the file away into a drawer of one of his cabinets when someone else enters his office, and from the way the Whalers’ chatter ceases immediately, he doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“To what do we owe the pleasure,” he says cordially as he locks the cabinet, “Lord Protector?”

“I need a word,” Daud says, and the ‘in private’, though left unspoken, is implied by his clipped, anxious tone. Thomas doesn’t even need to look at him to know that his posture is rim-rod straight, his jaw clenched, and his eyes stormy. Something is worrying him.

When he does turn to face Daud, he finds him still in the doorway, one hand on the handle. It’s clear he needs Thomas to come with him. “Alright,” Thomas says, as calmly as he can. Losing his head over an unknown variable won’t do either of them any favours. “Rulfio, could you –”

“Make sure Misha and Kieron stay out of your files? Of course,” Rulfio says from his spot in the corner, where he’s been reading all afternoon. “I’ll lock up, too.”

“Thank you.”

Daud’s already out the door by the time Thomas has hastily thrown on his Spymaster’s coat, and he has to jog to catch up to him. “What is it?” he asks as he swipes his hair out from under the high collar. “What’s happened? Is it Em?”

“Emily is fine,” Daud assures him, and that, at least, is a weight off Thomas’ chest.

“Then what –”

“Thomas,” Daud interrupts, “there is no crisis.”

His words clash horribly with his stiff posture. “So why are you nervous?”

Daud finally slows his rigorous pace, and he looks over at Thomas with a fond exasperation in his expression. “You know me far too well, cariño.”

“And you’re dodging my question,” Thomas notes, despite the pleased blush creeping up his cheeks. “What’s going on, Daud?”

Daud smiles, some tension leaving his shoulders. “Trust me,” he implores, offering Thomas his hand.

“Well, if you put it like that,” Thomas drawls, but he takes Daud’s hand regardless. He’ll always trust Daud, as he has since the day they met.

“Hang on,” is all the warning he gets before they’re transversing, Daud drawing on his own power to take Thomas through the Void with him. Side-along transversals feel strange, the inability to control the landing spot making Thomas dizzy, so he closes his eyes and lets Daud guide him, trusting as he was asked. He knows Daud won’t steer him wrong.

When they stop moving, and Thomas dares to open his eyes again, they’re at the top of the westernmost turret, the highest point of Dunwall Tower, neigh on impossible to reach without supernatural abilities. It’s the most secluded spot Thomas knows, a niche protected from both the wind and any possible prying eyes by the high battlements. This is the place where he and Daud go to spar when they want to use their powers undisturbed.

But from the beautifully set table in front of them, Thomas surmises Daud hasn’t taken him here to spar. “What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

Thomas can’t quite wrap his head around that. “You… cooked?”

Daud pulls a face. “Void, no. I can’t take a week off to recover from food poisoning. Don’t worry, the staff made it. It’s safe.”

“Alright,” Thomas says slowly, even if he still understands nothing. “But how did you…? Why did you…?”

He can’t even properly formulate his questions, but Daud makes sense of his babbling regardless. “It’s been twenty years,” he says softly, squeezing Thomas’ hand. “Twenty years ago today I didn’t kill you. Best decision I ever made. Not that that says much, with my track record, but –”

Thomas kisses him.

Daud smiles against his lips. “I take it you approve?”

“Of not being killed twenty years ago? Very much so,” Thomas can’t help but quip. “But dinner is also nice.”

“I’m going to not kill you today, too,” Daud says dryly as he pulls out a chair for Thomas. “Consider it a gift.”

Thomas sits. “You’re such a romantic.”

“I try.”

“You really do,” Thomas murmurs as he surveys the table. Dishes protected by Sokolov’s special heat-preserving cloches, candles, a bottle of the pear soda they both prefer over alcohol, even a container filled with the tangy lemon cakes Thomas favours for dessert. Daud’s thought of everything. “How did you even get all of this up here?”

Daud takes the other seat. “Tethered it.”

“You did not.”

“I did,” Daud says, pouring them both a glass of soda. “The table and the chairs, at least. The rest I carried.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Thomas protests, even if the mental image of Daud hauling all of this up to the roof is both amusing and heartwarming at once. “It’s beautiful up here, but if it was that much trouble, we could’ve just had dinner in our chambers.”

“That was the plan, initially,” Daud reveals as he takes the cloches off their plates, “but I would’ve had to cover the keyholes.” When Thomas raises an eyebrow at that, he elaborates: “Emily.”

“You believe the Empress would have spied on us through the keyhole?” Thomas inquires, unable to keep the note of incredulous amusement from his voice. “Doesn’t she have more important matters to attend to?”

“You’d think,” Daud grunts, cutting into his ox steak with more aggression than strictly necessary. “She’s been badgering me all damn week, since I requested to be allowed to clock out an hour earlier than usual today. Telling me how to fold napkins and lay out silverware, having the kitchen order extra lemons, trying to get me to wear a damn cravat. She’s a nightmare when she wants to be.”

Thomas nearly chokes on his drink. “Em tried to get you to wear a _cravat_?”

“Repeatedly,” Daud grumbles, sounding so put out by the mere thought that Thomas cannot contain his laughter. “She only understood it was a bad idea when she realised I could easily slit a throat with those Voiddamned little pins.”

Thomas skewers a potato on his fork. “Should I be wary of these, then?”

The Knife of Dunwall could kill you with a potato, after all.

“You don’t,” Daud says, and then, as if to prove his point, he snatches Thomas’ fork and eats the potato himself. “Everyone else is on thin fucking ice.”

“I’d imagine so, in the Month of Clans,” Thomas chuckles, the pleasant temperature of late springtime keeping them warm even atop the palace’s roof. When Daud rolls his eyes, Thomas reaches across the table to take his hand. “Thank you for enduring all of that for me. This is lovely.”

Daud smiles that warm smile that makes Thomas resent anyone calling him frigid. “A few more years,” he murmurs, lifting up Thomas’ hand so he can press a kiss to the back of it, “and Mayhew will be ready to take over from me. Maybe then I can actually learn how to cook.”

“Retirement, huh?” Thomas muses, the idea both appealing and appalling at once. They aren’t getting any younger, with Thomas on the wrong side of forty-five and Daud a few years past fifty, but it’s strange to imagine their lives without the responsibilities they’ve carried for more than a decade now. The plan they used to have, of moving to Serkonos, has long since become a distant dream. “Do you still want to move?”

“I don’t know,” Daud sighs, clearly conflicted. “I’d like to go home someday, but…”

“That would mean leaving Emily behind,” Thomas finishes for him, nodding in understanding. “And if the others come with us, she’ll have a severely diminished spy force.”

Daud regards him over the rim of his glass. “Do you have someone lined up to replace you, should it come to that?”

“Curnow,” Thomas answers promptly. Of his non-Whaler spies, Geoff Curnow’s adopted son is his most valued asset. Emily has known him since childhood, when they both took lessons from Jameson’s aunt Callista, and he is one of the few people she truly trusts. If anyone is to be Thomas’ successor, it would have to be Jameson Curnow.

“Makes sense,” Daud approves, swirling the last of his soda in his tumbler. “But do you even want to go to Serkonos? It gets damn hot, and they speak a different tongue there, and –”

He stops short when Thomas squeezes his hand. “I’ll learn to deal with the heat, and I’m nearly fluent in Serkonan by now. And I can take whatever else the Isle can throw at me, as long as you’re there with me,” he says, and he means that more than anything. “I want to be wherever you are.”

Daud stares at him, seemingly at a loss for words, and then he shakes his head. “Fuck it,” he says vehemently, reaching into his coat pocket to withdraw a small box. “I’m doing this now.”

Thomas’ brow furrows in confusion. “What do you –?”

“Emily said I should wait until sunset,” Daud talks over him, even if that explains absolutely nothing. “Never should have listened to her. Just because Mayhew’s been sneaking in her window at night for a few months now does not mean she’s fit to give relationship advice.”

He’s not making any sense. “Love, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

Daud sighs, raking a hand through his grey hair, and unceremoniously drops the little box on the table in front of Thomas. “Here.”

Thomas knows full well what these boxes tend to contain, and he really shouldn’t be surprised when he opens it to find a ring, a band of gold and silver woven together to create an exquisite piece of jewellery. A bit rough, perhaps, nothing a noble would purchase in a store, but there is something inherently personal about it, as though this ring carries the very essence of Daud himself.

And then it dawns on Thomas. “Did you… make this?”

Daud seems to find his empty glass suddenly very interesting. “I did.”

“It’s beautiful,” Thomas whispers, his fingers ghosting over the smooth metals, interwoven almost seamlessly. “Dear Void, Daud, it’s _beautiful_.”

Daud shifts in his seat, his eyes on the ring he so painstakingly created by hand. “My mother told me,” he begins quietly, “that it’s tradition, on the islands near Pandyssia, to create a token of love for the one you would spend eternity with. To pour a part of your soul into an object and entrust it to another, so that they may carry you with them always.” There’s a soft smile on his face, fondness etched in every wrinkle, and Thomas feels as though he’s looking straight at the sun itself. “That’s why I made it, for you. If you’ll have it. If you’ll have _me_.”

As if there will ever come a day when he won’t. “I told you twelve years ago,” Thomas murmurs as he carefully extracts the ring from its box. “It’s always been you. It’ll only ever be you.”

Slipping the band onto his finger feels like the most natural thing in the world. He wears it on his right ring finger, where he might have worn a wedding band, in another life. Another life he wants no part of, for there is nowhere he would rather be than here, no one he’d rather be with than Daud, and no way he could ever, in a million different lives, feel as happy as he does right now.

Daud takes his newly adorned hand and kisses it, almost reverently, and Thomas can feel tears running down his cheeks, unbidden and involuntary. “Daud,” he says, choking on the name because his throat has almost completely closed up, “I love you. More than anything in this world and the next, I love you.”

Daud’s breath shudders when he exhales, his eyes watery. “And I you,” he says, his voice firm in its conviction. “You are everything to me, mi alma.”

Thomas has learned enough Serkonan by now to know mi alma means ‘my soul’, and he couldn’t stop smiling if he tried.

He’s truly never been happier.

* * *

A little over a week after Thomas received his ring, he’s in his office working through the usual small mountain of paperwork, the one part of his job that has remained relatively consistent over the years. A portion of the work he’s handed over to Rulfio, who’s squinting at a report on the other side of the room, too stubborn to put on the glasses that hang around his neck. Rulfio is the oldest of the Whalers, more than a decade older than Daud, and Thomas has been keeping him out of the field as much as possible as the years caught up to him. He needs someone to help him sort through the papers in any case, and though Rulfio would never admit it, Thomas can tell he appreciates the calm of working from the office.

“Thom, where did you send Aeolos today?” Rulfio asks not long after lunch. “His report’s a mess and I can’t make heads or tails of his handwriting. Honestly, the city’s at peace for two seconds and they all think they can slack off on their paperwork.”

Thomas tries, and fails, to keep from smiling at Rulfio’s grouchy demeanour. “Aeolos, was it? I’ll check,” he says, his grin widening when Rulfio narrows his eyes at him. He goes to fetch the Whalers’ patrol roster for the month, but before he even gets up, the answer comes to him as if by magic. “He’s at Slaughterhouse Row.”

Rulfio grumbles discontentedly about that being too far from the Tower to just go and fetch him, but Thomas isn’t listening, his full attention on the strange sensation of being able to feel exactly where his men currently are. It’s like a string, a tether connecting him to the other Whalers, and his mind can follow the tethers, letting him know that Aeolos is at Slaughterhouse Row, and Rinaldo is at John Clavering Boulevard, and Quinn and Misha are up on a roof not far from here.

It’s not an entirely new phenomenon; Thomas has been able to feel Daud’s presence since the day he was allowed to share the Mark’s powers, because the very act of granting the Arcane Bond connects Daud with each and every one of his men. Every Whaler has a tether to Daud, as Daud has a tether to all of the Whalers, but the Whalers themselves are not connected that way.

Well, not until now, at least.

And if Thomas can sense the others like Daud can, perhaps that means…

“Rulfio,” Thomas breathes, hardly daring to hope this could be possible, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Get your own damn coffee, Thom.”

“No,” Thomas shakes his head. “I need you to step outside for a minute. Just into the hallway. I have to test a theory.”

Rulfio looks at him as though he’s lost his marbles, but when Thomas doesn’t relent, he sighs and hauls himself to his feet. “The things I do for a paycheck around here.”

He leaves the office, closing the door behind him, and Thomas focuses on the tether between himself and Rulfio, the newfound string that tells him exactly where his colleague is. Now, in theory, all he has to do is snap his fingers, and –

His magical energy is depleted almost completely, and Thomas sways on his feet at the sudden spell of dizziness that overtakes him, threatening to send him crashing to the floor. He only stays upright because there’s a firm pair of hands on his shoulders, guiding him back towards his desk chair. He collapses into it, the momentary weakness fading slowly as his energy begins to replenish itself.

When he can lift his heavy head, a chalk-white Rulfio is staring down at him. “You alright?”

“I believe so,” Thomas says, shakily tucking a wayward strand of his long hair behind his ear. “Did I…?”

“Summon me?” Rulfio finishes for him. “Yeah, you did. How the fuck did you even manage that?”

Thomas smiles tiredly. “Mi alma,” he mumbles, because that’s it, unmistakably. It’s not difficult to understand.

His very soul is intertwined with Daud’s, and now he has access to every power Daud’s Mark grants him.


	6. (+1) Arcane Bond

**+1**

Three hours into the reign of Empress Delilah Copperspoon-Kaldwin, Thomas Oleander Carmine is no longer the Royal Spymaster.

His powers are gone.

And he understands _nothing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm a horrible, horrible person.
> 
> Needless to say there's going to be another sequel, coming as quickly as I can write it!


End file.
